


Look on Down From the Bridge

by stele3



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Homelessness, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 08:29:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19826362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stele3/pseuds/stele3
Summary: This was requested by bangyababy on Tumblr, who donated to Border Angels.Full disclosure: my girlfriend is a barista at Starbucks. Everything in this story is based on things that she’s told me about work. Title refers to the song I was listening to while I wrote it.





	Look on Down From the Bridge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bangyababy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bangyababy/gifts).



Someone has stolen another carafe from their condiments station.

“I’m going to find them and murder them,” Bucky announces.

“Hey, no, come on.” Steve’s tone hovers somewhere between admonishing and pleading. “I’m sure they needed the protein.”

A lot of their clientele are houseless, so this is entirely possible. Bucky continues to scowl. “They could have just gotten a fucking to-go cup and poured the half-and-half into it. Taking the carafe was a dick move.”

The doorbell chimes—a noise that Bucky sometimes hears in his sleep—and Steve turns towards it immediately, plastering a smile on his narrow face. “Welcome to Starbucks!” Bucky, standing directly behind him, mouths along. According to their manager Dana—a White Lesbian—Starbucks policy dictates that every single partner on the floor greet every single customer that enters, like some kind of forced extroversion Greek chorus from Hell. If Bucky stands close enough to Steve, though, it’s usually impossible for anyone to tell if Bucky said anything or not. Steve is a small guy, but he’s got a big presence.

Their manager, Dana, smiles at them both in approval then returns to messing with the second register. Dana is a White Lesbian in that she’s white and a lesbian and absolutely fails at intersectionality. Anytime Steve has to call out sick or Bucky needs to go to a therapy appointment, she guilt-trips them about leaving the store short-staffed and pressures them to come in anyway. Steve gets het up about her ableism and sketchy racial politics all the time, so it’s Bucky’s job to keep Steve from getting fired.

The new customer twitches in surprise at their greeting. It isn’t one of their motley assortment of regulars; they’ve got a septum piercing and a half-shaved head, along with some kind of work uniform. Bucky is working on not assuming people’s genders, ever since Steve told him haltingly that he might not be 100% male all the time. If Bucky couldn’t figure out that after knowing Steve his entire life, he sure can’t expect to look at a customer and immediately know jack shit.

The new customer is named “Mark”—which still doesn’t mean anything—and Bucky digs deep, making a show of reading the name off the cup and asking Mark, “How’s your day going?” then making noises at what he thinks are appropriate moments while he makes the drink, an Americano. Thank fuck it’s an Americano. Mark looks about as thrilled to be talking to Bucky as Bucky feels to be talking to anyone who isn’t Steve, but if they don’t keep up a steady stream of conversation then Dana will pull Bucky aside later and tell him that he needs to be engaging more with the customers. At least Mark doesn’t ask about Bucky’s arm.

One of these days, a customer will cruise past the registers towards the bathroom and Bucky will leap across the counter, tackle them, pin them to the ground, get right up in their face with a big smile, and say, “ _How’s your day going?_ ” That’ll likely be the day _he_ gets fired but at least Dana won’t be able to say he failed to engage the fucking customer.

Once Mark flees to the scantly-stocked condiment station, Bucky drifts back down the line to Steve, who is doing some hand stretches at the register. They’re the only two closing today, which means they’ll be here late. The store is short-staffed because none of the partners they hire stay longer than a month before quitting or transferring to a different Starbucks: their location is in a dicey part of Hell’s Kitchen that’s only just started to gentrify. Right before Steve and Bucky got hired at the same time, a partner got pricked by a discarded needle while changing the bathroom trash. She didn’t catch anything, but the experience spooked her and she moved on.

Apparently only Steve and Bucky are idealistic and jaded enough, respectively, to continue working at this location longer than a month. That, or desperate: the benefits are good and they’ve both got complex medical histories which make them _super_ appealing to employers.

“I don’t care about the carafe,” Bucky tells Steve in an undertone.

“Obviously,” Steve mutters back. It’s _Starbucks_. Bucky regularly has to talk Steve down from self-flagellating guilt about _working for the enemy_ ; Steve is a card-carrying member of the DSA and wants nothing better in life than to fight Jeff Bezos to the death in unarmed combat. He’s about five feet tall and he’d fucking _win_ from sheer determination.

Man, Bucky loves him.

He kind of wallows around in that feeling while gazing at Steve’s face in their shitty workplace, wearing their shitty work aprons. Green is really not Steve’s color, it makes his pale skin look sickly…which, okay, it frequently is sickly. Not right now, thank fuck. He’d touch wood if there was any fucking wood anywhere in the slick, metal gleam of Starbucks.

From behind Bucky, Mark says, “Uh, sorry, you’re out of half-and-half.”

Bucky widens his eyes at Steve pointedly.

Sighing, Steve steps around him. “Sorry, Mark, we’re short on carafes right now. Let me get you some.”

-o-

The second the door gets locked, Bucky switches the music from the Starbucks-Approved MixTM to his own. Steve is stuck outside talking to one of their regulars, a houseless lady—no, _person,_ dammit, he’s never asked their pronouns—named Janet. Janet’s having a rough day: it’s the first of the month, so everybody’s social security checks have come in, and those of their regulars who struggle with addiction are suddenly riding high again, which leads to some…interesting situations. Janet got into it with a guy earlier after he wouldn’t leave her alone and Steve had intervened, putting his skinny little body between them.

Bucky _hates_ it when Steve does that, but it’s better than the time that one guy got explosive diarrhea in the lobby and they had to shut down for a biohazard cleanup.

He’s stocking the milk fridges when Steve comes back in, which is totally against Starbucks policy—no one is supposed to be alone in the store at any time. “You’re gonna get in trouble with Dana,” Bucky warns him.

“Why, you gonna rat me out?”

“I should. I hate it when you do that.” Steve’s got some kind of weird charisma-based forcefield around him that makes people listen to him and do what he says. Still, Bucky’s pretty sure that one of these days, Steve’s gonna get shanked if he keeps jumping in between people like that.

Steve juts his chin out, which is _not fair_. He knows what his stupid chin does to Bucky…his whole stupid face, really.

“Was Janet okay?” Bucky asks to distract Steve from arguing, which is Steve’s second-favorite activity. Well, third-favorite.

“Yeah, she just needed somebody to talk to for a bit who wasn’t trying to hit on her.” Steve joined Bucky in wiping down the espresso machines. “Hey, you remember when—”

“Yeah.” They’d been houseless together for a hot minute after Bucky had finally been discharged from the VA hospital, before his benefits kicked in. Steve’s thinking of the drag queens who’d found them camped out and interrogated them about their relationship at three in the goddamned morning before deciding that yes, they _were_ queer enough to merit some help. They’d wound up on somebody’s couch being watched over by a dozen wig-adorned mannequins. “Janet’s not sleeping on our couch.”

Steve sighs a little and brushes the back of his wrist against the side of Bucky’s head.

After Steve finishes the money—technically he’s a _shift_ , which is bullshit because he got hired literally five minutes before Bucky—they set the alarm and lock up, ferrying their to-go cups of tea out into the late afternoon. Steve had wanted coffee but Bucky prefers that he fucking sleep once in while. The two blocks around their store smell strongly of piss, but once they’re out of the urine zone the day isn’t too bad.

“How’s your back?” he asks.

“Not bad,” Steve lies. Bucky can tell it’s a lie, but he doesn’t say anything. They’re a few blocks from the water but he can smell it; they’re heading the opposite direction from their station, but Steve always likes to take a walk near the piers and throw his middle finger up at New Jersey across the water before they head home.

It’s warm out, even if the sun can’t quite reach them between the buildings. Bucky puts his arm around Steve, hand curled under his last ribs. If he supports Steve like this while they walk, his own back will be messed up tomorrow and he’ll hurt all the way through work; but it’s okay.

Steve smiles up at him and when they stop at a crosswalk, Bucky leans down for a kiss. Steve’s mouth tastes like dragonfruit juice mixed with some kind of tea that’ll likely get discontinued in three months. It’s not the worst thing in the world.


End file.
